


richie tozier & subway etiquette

by abbeyway



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbeyway/pseuds/abbeyway
Summary: There are several unspoken rules for taking the subway, including but not limited to:1) Do not steal someone else's seat.2) Do notsiton the person who stole your seat.3) Never, ever eat sunflower seeds.But to some, they're really more what you'd call guidelines.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 26
Kudos: 389





	richie tozier & subway etiquette

There are few things in life that Richie Tozier knows for certain.

He knows that dick jokes will always be funny, that showers are better than baths, and that no one actually likes the taste of black coffee. He knows that he’s gay, and that, at forty years old, he’s already got arthritis in his knees.

But now, he can add another thing to the list, because today Richie Tozier has discovered that he absolutely, 100% does not belong in Manhattan’s Financial District.

Or the FiDi, as a true New Yorker would say.

He’s only here because of his manager, James. 

Apparently, Richie’s guest stint on a recent podcast has increased the demand for him to get his own show. Richie has zero idea why people would want to listen to him sitting on a couch, talking about nothing every week (read: characteristic uncertainty), but the mentions have been frequent enough to catch the attention of Spotify, who instantly reached out to James and asked about production rights. 

Which is how, on the East Coast leg of his tour, Richie had wound up sitting in Spotify headquarters, James at his side, discussing the details of a possible contract. Well, James was discussing the details. Richie spent most of the meeting fiddling with his pen, staring out at the Manhattan skyline and daydreaming about bagels.

He’d been kicked under the table more than once.

Once the bare bones of the contract had been discussed, the meeting had concluded with James agreeing to send the details over to Richie’s lawyer for review. The final decision, of course, would still be Richie’s, lawyer approval or not.

And, at this point in time, Richie still has no idea if he really wants to do it.

Because sure, having his own podcast could be cool, but not at the whim of Spotify. If Richie makes a podcast, he wants it to be done guerrilla style, out of his shitty LA garage, with ridiculous topics and ridiculous production.

Besides, it’s not like he needs the money.

After all, he’s wealthy enough to have a tiny studio apartment on the Upper West Side, a stone’s throw away from Central Park, despite being based out of L.A. All of which is thanks to dick jokes. Well, dick jokes and Netflix.

James said goodbye to Richie at the bottom of Spotify headquarters, giving him a clap to the shoulder before heading further south to meet up with some old New York friends. Richie had stood on the curb, watching yellow cabs fly past, honking their horns in New York rush hour. After a few seconds of inner debate, he’d decided to head to the subway station instead of attempting flag one down, because when in New York.

It was probably a poor decision.

Now Richie’s standing on the Wall Street subway platform at 5:00 pm, surrounded by a sea of people dressed in navy, gray, and black business wear. Every few seconds, he can feel a different person’s eyes on him and he shifts awkwardly, unsure if they recognize him or if their eyes are burning from his mustard yellow shirt.

Richie does not belong here. He does not belong among grown ups, adults with important jobs and families to get to. People who have schedules, and meal plans, and loved ones. Unfortunately, Richie’s headphones are sitting forgotten on his kitchen counter, so he doesn’t even have something to distract him from his ever present thoughts of inadequacy.

His hands are burning a hole through the pockets of his leather jacket when the train rolls in, squeaky and surprisingly empty. Richie just has the chance to think he might get a seat when the throng of commuters presses against him to rush into the car. Stumbling through the sliding doors, his eyes immediately glance around, looking for free real estate.

Most of the seats have already been taken up by well suited New Yorkers, staring resolutely at their smart phones. There’s a single free one left. It’s at the end of the row, just before another set of doors, and Richie strides towards it, jaw clenched in determination. Just as he’s about to reach the seat, another man steps in front of it, having come from the opposite direction. 

He’s a Wall Street type, all tightly wound energy with his blue suit and clean shaven face, mouth pressed in a firm line.

He also happens to be rather good looking.

The man’s about to sit down when he notices Richie staring at him, and his eyebrows knit together, confused. Richie swallows, because no, he’s not rather good looking, he _is_ good looking, and Richie has never, never been any good at acting normal around people he finds attractive. Instead, he tends to devolve into his thirteen year old self – in other words, an obnoxious jackass.

Which is exactly what happens now. He lunges around the man, who begins to sputter indignantly, and settles in the seat with an arrogant smile. 

He’s met with a dumbfounded stare.

“Dude what the fuck.”

Briefly taken aback by the man’s unexpected use of the word _dude_ , Richie blinks innocently. “Yes?”

The man raises his eyebrows, mouth dropping open in disbelief. He gestures to where Richie’s sitting. “That was my seat.”

“Oh really?“ Richie frowns and glances first around the car, then behind him, as if to look for something. “I don’t seem to see any signs saying it’s yours?”

“I was standing right in front of it! I was obviously going to sit down.”

His voice getting louder now, face screwed up, but in classic New York style, no one so much as glances over at them. Richie just takes the frustration in stride and shrugs lazily.

“That’s what happens when you just don’t sit down in time.”

“Dude, it’s common fucking courtesy!” The man replies, hand slicing through the air. Richie fights the urge to grin. “Everyone knows that.”

“Guess I’m not very courteous then,”

For a second, Richie thinks the man’s going to explode. But instead, he squints his eyes and tilts his head, considering. “Fine.”

“I – wait, what the fuck.” Richie yelps as he’s promptly sat on.

Yet again, no one on the car bats an eyelid. Fucking New Yorkers.

The man glares at him as he lifts his suitcase onto his lap. “I’ve had a long day, and I want to sit down, and you stole my seat.” There’s a brief pause, and then. “So fuck you.” 

Suddenly lightheaded, Richie watches (and feels, _good god_ ) the man shift around and try to get comfortable. He’s angled perpendicular to Richie, his legs kept neatly out of the aisle, feet pointing toward the doors. Richie has a crystal clear view of the left side of his face, can already pick out the small mole on the upper half of his cheek. 

“Yeah, I think this goes against subway etiquette, man.” says Richie, his voice coming out embarrassingly strangled.

“Guess I’m not very courteous then.”

At Richie's loud snort, a flush creeps up the other man’s neck, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“So, um, when’s your stop?” Richie asks.

“96th street.”

And great, 96th street is further north than Richie’s own stop, which means he can look forward to another fifteen minutes of trying not to pop a boner while an attractive man _sits on him_. Maybe, Richie thinks, another seat will free up and he’ll go sit somewhere else. 

But as the subway pulls up to the next station, and more commuters pile on, Richie realizes the futility of that thought. Everyone’s commuting home right now, going from south Manhattan to Harlem and Washington Heights - no one’s getting off the train to go home in fucking Midtown. Those people are going home in escalades, not on the subway.

Richie could always shove the man off him, if needed. It would be pretty easy. He’s smaller than Richie, probably five inches shorter and a good forty pounds lighter. Or Richie could just abandon his post and give him the seat.

But the thing is -

The thing is when was the last time Richie had an attractive man on his lap? 

There _really_ could be worse things in the world.

So instead of doing anything, Richie just sighs and watches as his new seatmate pulls a pair of headphones out of his pocket and tucks them in his ears. His jaw clenches in concentration when he pulls out his phone and begins to scroll, delicate fingers making fast, frenzied movements on the screen. 

Richie can already feel his palms beginning to sweat. He shoves his glasses up his nose and tries to think of where to put his hands. The pockets of his jacket are out, since Richie has an absurd wingspan, and that would mean digging his knobby elbow into the woman sitting beside him. And he can’t put them in his lap, since there is an actual man sitting there. Eventually Richie decides to just slide them under his thighs and pray that they don’t fall asleep during the ride. 

Several minutes pass, and the car continues to fill with more and more commuters. Richie glances around every so often, trying not to stare too hard at the man. But every so often he chuckles lightly at whatever he’s listening to, eyes crinkling at the corners while his body lightly shakes, and Richie wants to die. 

Richie tries to think of something, anything, to calm his body down, because he is forty years old and will _not_ get a boner in public, god dammit. The first thought that comes to mind is his grandmother, sitting in her favourite armchair while she stares at him, unimpressed as usual. That then shifts into vomit on the sidewalk, then a paper cut in his eye.

He’s just on to imagining the Fibonacci code when the man looks over at him and quirks his eyebrow. Richie swallows thickly, sure he’s been caught out, before he realizes that he’s been unintentionally bouncing his leg up and down this entire time.

Richie doesn’t exactly want to say the truth, which would be “Hey, it’s better than feeling my boner”, so he just stares right back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I forget to mention the restless legs syndrome?”

There’s an unintentionally biting edge to Richie’s words, thanks to his nerves, and the man turns back to his phone with an exaggerated eye roll. But now that he’s gotten his attention, Richie instinctively craves more of it. He leans forward, trying to get a look at the phone’s display.

“So what are you listening to?” Richie asks.

The man immediately flips the phone over so that it’s screen is hidden and looks at Richie with a confused frown. “Dude, there’s no talking on the subway.” 

“Yeah, pretty sure there’s no sitting on people either.” Richie gestures to his lap. “And yet here we are.”

At that, his seatmate has the decency to look embarrassed. He glances at his feet, face flushing once again. Just when he looks up, mouth open and ready to say something, Richie smirks. 

“I bet you’re listening to the Daily.”

“The Daily? Why the fuck would I be listening to that?”

“Because you’re a New Yorker, who’s commuting, with a briefcase.” Richie replies. “All the signs are there.”

A scoff. “That does not mean I’m listening to the Daily.”

“Hm, I’m not sure. You’re lookin’ a little red.” Richie teases. When there’s no response, he continues, transforming his voice. “From the New York Times I’m Michael Barabaro, and This. Is. The. Daily.”

“Jesus Christ.” The man groans, rubbing a hand against his temple. Despite the harsh tone, there’s the beginnings of a smile on his face, an image which Richie drinks in, quietly pleased to be the cause. “Will you be quiet if I show you what I’m listening to?”

“I mean, I can’t make any promises. But it’ll improve your chances.”

As more people pour onto the train, a blend of working New Yorkers and tourists, the man presses on his phone to illuminate the screen and holds it up to Richie’s face. Richie has to shove his glasses up his nose again to get a good look and his eyes widen when he reads the words in front of him. 

Because wait, the man’s listening to a podcast about the X-Files? That is definitely, definitely not what Richie was expecting. He glances up from the phone, surprised, and sees the man watching him with a wary, almost self conscious, expression.

“Holy shit. Really?” 

The man shifts awkwardly. “Yes, really.” Then, registering Richie’s grin, his eyebrows rise slightly. “You’re a fan?”

“Yeah, of course man. I was a nerdy teenager in the nineties, Mulder and Scully were my goddamn heroes.” Dimples appear on the man’s face as he breaks out into a soft smile, which _Jesus_. Richie clears his throat. “So, what do they - do they just talk about the show in general or?”

“Kind of.” He replies with a shrug. “The host has a guest each week, and they talk about a certain episode. Like, about behind the scenes stuff, and the episode’s themes, shit like that.”

Richie whistles. “Well that sure as hell sounds better than the Daily. Wait, so which one are they on now?”

“Uh, Home. The one with the farmers. Do you remember it?”

“Holy shit! That’s totally the best one.” Without thinking, Richie reaches forward and pulls one of the headphones out of the man’s ear, begins to bring it to his own. “What are they saying?”

“Dude, no fucking way.” The man yelps, yanking the headphone back and holding it in his hand protectively. 

Despite knowing that he’s probably in the wrong, Richie still bristles at being on the receiving end of such a horrified stare. “Did no one ever tell you that sharing is caring?”

“And did no one ever tell you that sharing ear buds causes a ten fold increase of bacteria in your ear?”

“I like bacteria. It makes you stronger, builds the immune syst -” 

“Kills you?” 

“Hasn’t yet.” Richie replies in a sing song voice.

The man rolls his eyes. Making a point to stare at Richie, he removes the headphone from his other ear and slowly winds the cable around his hand. The two headphones are soon meticulously looped together, a mockery of the tangled mess that Richie’s usually form in his pocket. Richie lets out a childish whine as the man moves to tuck the headphones into his briefcase.

It’s then that the subway changes track. The car weaves as a result and one of the commuters standing in the aisle, a clear rookie since she isn’t holding onto anything, falls slightly off balance and presses into the man. 

In a clear attempt not to fall over, he sticks his hand out, reaching for something to hold onto. Unfortunately, Richie’s taking up the entire seat, so the hand just lands on his hip and digs in. Richie squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the hand instantly being removed from his hip, hears the man mutter a swear as he shifts slightly on Richie’s lap. 

Think of the Fibonacci code. Think of the Fibonacci code.

(0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 …)

“Wait, so you - you think Home is the best X-files episode?”

Richie’s eyes fly open. 

The man’s looking at him nervously, face flushed. His hair is fluffier than it was just moments before, messy even, as if he’s been running his hands through it. 

It’s a few seconds before Richie realizes the man is still waiting for him to reply. “Um. Yeah, everyone thinks that.”

“No, nobody thinks that.” He insists with a shake of his head. “It’s just the scariest one.”

Richie gives him a look. “Exactly. So it’s the best.”

“No way dude. Everyone knows Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose is the best.”

“Psh, that one’s boring.”

The man looks outraged. “Boring? It won an Emmy!”

“Emmy shmemmy.” Richie waves his hand dismissively. “That doesn’t mean shit.” 

“Um, no. I think it means it was award worthy.”

“Awards are bullshit. Did you know that the Wire never won a single Emmy?” Richie throws his hands in the air, genuinely appalled. “The greatest show in history, and it didn’t win shit.”

He’s met with a wicked grin. “Guess it wasn’t as great as Clyde Bruckman.”

“How _dare you_." 

The man laughs, sweet and light, as the next stop is announced over the intercom. Richie can feel the woman next to him shift slightly and pull her bag closer, a tell tale sign that the next stop is hers. 

A debate briefly rages in Richie’s head about whether or not to claim the woman’s seat. He doesn’t really want to give up his current position, especially not when the man on top of him has turned out to be surprisingly adorable. But at the same time, he’s fully aware that not at least attempting to grab the seat would look, well, a little weird.

And so, when the woman goes to stand up, Richie taps the man lightly on the thigh and gestures to the seat beside them. He gets a small nod of acknowledgement in response. As the subway rolls to a stop, the man stands up, allowing Richie to slide his ass across to the other seat.

The man sits back down on the original seat and brings his briefcase closer to his chest. “Fucking finally.” He mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Yup.” Richie agrees, popping the ‘p’. 

An uneasy silence settles between them and Richie picks at a thread on his jeans. He glances over at the man, who’s watching him uneasily. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but he doesn’t say anything to Richie, eventually looking back down at his hands.

In an effort to kill the awkwardness, Richie leans over slightly, and holds out his hand. “I’m Richie, by the way.”

The man hesitates for a second before he reaches out and takes the hand with a clammy palm. “Edward. Well, Eddie actually.” He winces as they shake hands. And then adds, more firmly. “Eddie.”

Richie rolls the name around in his head and grins. “Nice to meet you Eddie.” 

The man, or Eddie apparently, withdraws his hand and wipes it gently on his pants. When he looks back up at Richie, he shifts in his seat. 

“So uh - what were you doing on Wall Street?”

“Oh, well I work there, obviously.” Richie drawls, gesturing to his rumpled attire while Eddie narrows his eyes. “Well, actually, I technically was there for work, but it was just to sort out a contract. What uh - what about you? What were you doing there?”

“I actually do work there.”

“Right. As a – what, a banker?”

“No. I’m a risk analyst, actually.”

Richie blinks. “A what now?”

Eddie gestures vaguely in the air. “I help companies analyze potential business decisions, like international expansion, downsizing, that kind of thing.”

Folding his hands in his lap, Richie leans forward and smiles, earnest. “Oh, really? That sounds super interesting.”

Eddie stares at him. “Actually?”

“No, not at all.” 

“Fuck you du -” 

“Hey Richie!”

Both Richie and Eddie start at the sound of his name. Muscles tense, Richie glances in the direction of the voice, which is towards the other side of the car. It belongs to a young man in his twenties, standing at one set of doors and wearing a varsity sweatshirt, the words Penn State written across it in bright purple.

Seeing that he has Richie’s attention, the man puts his hands around his mouth and shouts “The fun has just begun!”.

Richie blinks and glances back at Eddie, who’s watching him with a confused frown. Several other people, all clearly tourists, also stare at him. It’s a lot of unwanted attention, and Richie hesitates. He doesn’t want to act like a jackass and ignore the fan, but he also doesn’t want to obnoxiously shout anything back.

He ultimately settles for something halfway, giving the fan a grimace and awkward half salute as the train pulls into the station. Seemingly pleased, the fan returns the salute and gives Richie a wide grin before he steps out of the car and onto the platform. 

As soon as he’s gone, the inevitable question is asked. “Did you – did you know that guy?” 

“Nope.”

“Really? Because he knew your name.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Richie tries to think of what to say. After all these years, it’s still an awkward thing to talk about, the fact that he’s kind of, sort of, maybe famous. “Uh. He must have watched one of my shows.”

“One of your shows?” 

“Yeah, I’m a comedian. I have a few specials on Netflix at the moment, he yelled the tagline from one of them.”

“A Netflix sp –“ Eddie pauses, realization flashing across his face. “Oh, _shit_. You’re the – you’re the Trash-whatever guy, right? I’ve totally scrolled past your face before.”

It’s a glowing endorsement.

Richie snorts. “Scrolled past? Jeez, thanks.”

The response is quick and guilty sounding. “I, uh - sorry, my ex was never really into stand up. Weren’t you on SNL at one point though? You were the one who always did all those impressions?”

“Yeah, like around ten years ago?”

Eddie nods, pleased. “I remember watching you. You were fucking awesome, looked different though. Maybe it was the wigs, or the no glasses –“

“Or the cocaine?”

He startles. “Really?” 

“I plead the fifth.” Richie shrugs, because yes, really. When you get your dream job, but then have no one to share it with, because you’re in the closet and painfully self loathing, drugs and alcohol become welcome bedfellows. 

Thankfully, the drugs part of that equation is in the past now. The alcohol? Well, Richie’s still working on that. But it is getting better.

“Fucking celebrities.” Eddie shakes his head, and Richie’s about to bite back a reply when he sees a smirk flash across his face. “Wait, so have you ever won an Emmy then?” 

“That’s irrelevant.”

Picking up on the dismissal, Eddie eyes flash, giddy. “Oh, I think it’s very, very relevant.”

Richie scoffs, but he’s breaking out into a smile, because there’s nothing like someone who can give as much as they get. “I happen to have been nominated for three.” 

“Right, so nominated but never won?”

“Like I said, emmy shmemmy.”

“Mhm. Maybe you need to rewatch Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose? See what good writing is actually like?"

“Ugh, not that boring piece of shit.”

An elbow collides gently with Richie’s ribs and he cackles, loudly, just as the train pulls into another station. Several commuters step off, while others get on, making their way through the aisle on the hunt for a seat. One such commuter, a man in his thirties, is holding a bag of sunflower seeds. As he walks past, he puts one in his mouth, then spits the shell on the floor.

Then he does it again.

Eddie wrinkles his nose in disgust, then looks over at Richie. “Dude, you’ve been nominated for a fucking Emmy. What the hell are you doing on the subway then? If I had the money, this is the last place I’d want to be.”

“Yeah, well, what about you?” Richie asks, watching sunflower seed man make his way to the other end of the car, shells following him in his wake. “You work on Wall Street, look at this suit. I could absolutely see you cruising down Fifth Avenue in your escalade.”

Eddie looks down at his briefcase. “That would be because alimony is a bitch.” 

It’s not what Richie’s expecting to hear. He blinks once, twice, three times, watches Eddie pick a piece of lint off his jacket. “Right. Well, I wouldn’t know about that. Luckily, my stereotypical celebrity habits begin and end with cocaine.” Eddie glances back up at him, quirks an eyebrow. “But honestly, I like the subway. It wouldn’t be a trip to New York without it.”

“A trip? You don’t live here?”

Richie shakes his head. “Not really, I’m based in L.A. for the most part. I’m just on tour right now, so I’m here for a show.” 

“Oh. Where?”

“The Apollo Theatre. Tomorrow evening.”

That makes Eddie widen his eyes. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Should be good, or, well, alright at least.” At the thought of standing in front of a crowd, saying the same old joke, Richie cringes. “I’m kind of at the point of the tour where I want to stab myself in the eye every time I get to the same punch line.” 

“I think that might just be because the punch lines are bad.”

And now it’s Richie’s turn to elbow him in the ribs.

“Well you wouldn’t know, Mister I’ve Scrolled Past Your Face Before.” Eddie hides his face in his hands and groans as Richie laughs and leans back in the seat. He presses his head against the glass and stares at the ceiling. “But I am going to do a secret show tonight, at the Comedy Cellar. You know, try out some new material or whatever, see what the crowd thinks of it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie runs a hand through his hair, making it even messier. “Nice. Well, when in New York, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

As the train rolls out of another station, Richie’s surprised to realize the next stop is his, meaning he only has a couple more minutes to sit beside Eddie. Richie doesn’t really know anything about him. He doesn’t know if Eddie’s taken, if he’s gay or straight, what he likes aside from 90s sci-fi. But what Richie does know is that he likes him.

He thinks back to all those missed opportunities in his twenties and thirties. Those times when he’d met someone, felt a connection, and then run away scared, too afraid of the baggage that might come from being himself. 

Richie doesn’t want another decade of his life to be defined by what ifs. 

So fuck it.

“Do you – do you have plans for tonight?” He asks, looking over at Eddie.

Eddie makes a sound likes he's choking. “What?”

Trying to act casual, Richie gestures vaguely in the air. “I just - if you wanted to come see the show tonight, I could put you on the guest list? They have good drinks, and surprisingly decent food.”

“Oh. Um, I’m actually seeing a friend tonight.”

And right, of course. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, confronted with his own idiocy. Eddie’s a stranger, on a train, who was just being friendly to him because of the situation. Apparently Richie is just desperate enough for affection that he would read something into this.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. It’s all good.” Richie shrugs, while Eddie looks away, clearly embarrassed. As Richie hears his stop announced over the intercom, he stands up and motions awkwardly towards the door. “Anyways, this is my stop, so I should probably –“

“Right, yeah.” Eddie nods, biting his lip.

Unfortunately, the aisle is packed with people, so Richie is stuck standing almost directly in front of Eddie while he waits for the car to pull into the station. He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him the entire time, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

People begin to shuffle towards the door as the car begins to slow down. Richie’s about to move with them when he feels a hand grab his wrist.

“Wait.” 

Richie looks down to see Eddie holding on to him, a shocked expression on his face, like he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. He drops his hand and swallows, loudly. “My uh – my friend’s been having a rough week, so um, maybe - maybe a comedy show would do him some good.”

It takes Richie a moment to realize that this is Eddie agreeing to go to his show.

His face breaks out into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nods, certain. 

The doors of the subway open, and people begin to spill out of the car. Richie points at Eddie, all serious, as he’s pushed towards the door. “Comedy Cellar at 9, there’ll be an Eddie plus one on the list.”

Richie doesn’t know if Eddie replies, because the doors immediately close on him. As he backs away from the car, he sees Eddie turn around in his seat and look out onto the platform. Spotting Richie, he flashes a nervous smile and salutes him, an awkward imitation of Richie’s earlier interaction with the fan. 

As the train pulls out of the station, Richie returns the salute.

Maybe the Financial District isn’t _so_ bad.

**Author's Note:**

> My co-worker was telling me a story about two people fighting for a seat on the train and I could not get this idea out of my head. It demanded to be written.


End file.
